


Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down)

by RedOrchid



Series: assassins!verse [1]
Category: Bandom
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Enemy Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-24
Updated: 2009-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-09 14:18:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/456454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedOrchid/pseuds/RedOrchid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Kill Bill</i> meets <i>Pulp Fiction</i> meets about a 1/10 or so of John Grisham’s <i>The Firm</i>. Spencer is a hit man, working for the Deadly Cobras. A certain Brendon Urie keeps getting in his way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down)

**Author's Note:**

> I have three WIPs going for the [Christmas wish exchange](http://redorchids.livejournal.com/90682.html) (and some art that I'm planning to do). And one of them even got completed in time! \o/ (The rest will come along shortly, hope you don't mind.)
> 
> The following is for [](http://moku-youbi.livejournal.com/profile)[**moku_youbi**](http://moku-youbi.livejournal.com/) in response to this wish: _Spencer/Brendon where they are hitmen on opposite sides of some dispute or other, but who are sort of friends, occasionally running into one another on the job (trying to beat each other to the same target, or something) and who hang out outside of work for casual drinks and the like (they don't really have any friends or family). Then, one winter they're assigned to kill each other, but run away together, instead._
> 
> Big thanks to [](http://salire.livejournal.com/profile)[**salire**](http://salire.livejournal.com/) for cheerleading and doing impromptu beta work at 4 AM. Merry Christmas, [](http://moku-youbi.livejournal.com/profile)[**moku_youbi**](http://moku-youbi.livejournal.com/). Love you to little pieces. ♥

“You're too late again.”

Spencer steps fully into the room, sees the target he's been tracking lying on his back between red-stained sheets, clearly dead. One hundred thousand dollars lost. Fuck.

He turns to the other man in the room and watches him de-assemble his gun and put it carefully back into a non-descriptive briefcase.

“What did you do this time? Seduce him?”

Brendon Urie turns his head to look at Spencer, face opening up in a slow smile. “Why? You jealous?”

Spencer raises an eyebrow and sends a pointed look towards the very dead man on the bed. “Oh yeah. Obviously.”

“Hey, don't knock it ‘till you try it.”

Spencer rolls his eyes. “I think I'll live.”

Urie laughs and offers him a high five on his way out the door. Spencer doesn’t take it.

***

“Well, if it isn’t the infamous Spencer Smith.”

Spencer’s right hand automatically goes for his gun. Then he recognises the voice. Brendon Urie. Again. Awesome.

“I prefer ‘sensational’,” he replies, not even bothering to turn around. “Have to keep up the alliteration.”

“Yeah?” Urie says, pulling out the chair next to Spencer’s at the bar and climbing up without even asking. “So, Spencer Smith, sensational sublime superhero-you. How’s business?”

Spencer rolls his eyes. “Looking up. Thanks for asking.”

“Really? You sure about that?”

Spencer freezes, a sense of dread creeping down his spine. He slowly lowers his glass and turns around. “No way.”

Brendon reaches into his jacket and pulls out a polaroid, showing another body in another hotel room. One that Spencer recognises far too well since he’s spent the last three days monitoring it, waiting for the target to arrive and finding his window to strike.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck._

“So, how about you buy me a drink?” Urie says, smiling brightly. Spencer wants to punch him.

“Now why would I do that?”

Brendon turns his bottom lip out in a pout. Seriously, a fucking pout. Unbelievable. “To celebrate,” he says, giving Spencer a show of puppy eyes as well, probably just for the hell of it. “People buy other people celebratory drinks when they do well at work.”

“Sorry, I’m a bit short at the moment,” Spencer says. “Some asshole just lost me eighty grand.”

Brendon’s pout turns into a smug smile. “Ninety-five, actually.”

“You’d better be fucking kidding me.”

“Nope,” Brendon drawls, looking infuriatingly pleased with himself. “I guess they thought I deserved a bonus. You know, for doing so well lately.”

“Fuck you.”

Brendon leans back a little, catching his lower lip between his teeth and giving Spencer a really obvious once-over. “Nah, don’t think so,” he says. “I’m more of a wine-dine-sixty-nine kind of guy. Can’t put out for boys who won’t treat me right, you know?” Brendon calls the bartender over and orders a mojito for himself. Then he tilts his head to the side and gives Spencer a dirty smile.

“Drink?”

Spencer gives him the most disgusted look he can manage and leaves the bar without further comment.

***

“Would you _stop_ killing my targets.”

Brendon lowers his gun, putting it back in its holster, casual as can be. “What can I say? It pays the bills.”

For a split second, Spencer seriously considers shooting him. He could probably cover it up, let Beckett’s people think that the target managed to get a hit before biting the bullet himself. It’s two hundred thousand fucking dollars on the line. Spencer would lie if he said he wasn’t a little tempted.

“Maybe you should pay better attention,” Brendon says, and Spencer curses himself for letting his concentration slip when he feels the still warm barrel of a gun press against his temple. “Work a little harder.”

“Maybe you should stop _flirting_ with everyone you kill,” Spencer throws back, quickly scanning the room in search for anything he could use to get out of the situation.

“Well, you know what they say,” Brendon muses, voice low and caressing. “All work and no play...”

“Makes me a dull boy?”

“Actually, I was going to say that it makes you inefficient,” Brendon says, lowering his gun and pushing Spencer away from him. “But sure, dull works.”

***

“Seems we keep running into each other.”

Spencer turns around slower than his instincts are telling him to, keeping his face carefully blank. “So it does. Haven’t seen you around for a while, though. It’s been nice.” He’s pretty sure he manages to say it with the right amount of disinterest and sarcasm. Truth is, it’s been a lot more than a while. Brendon’s been gone for at least four months. Spencer hasn’t made this much money in years.

“Ran into some people in Hong Kong,” Brendon says, shrugging. “They weren’t very friendly.”

“Like who?”

“Fa Li.”

Spencer feels shock bloom of his face in spite of his efforts to contain it. “ _You’re_ the one who took out Fa Li?”

“Well, not _just_ Fa Li. There were at least ten bodyguards.” Brendon winces a bit when he says it, and Spencer immediately zeroes in on how he seems to be holding his left arm more stiffly than usual.

“That’s, um, top risk,” he says. “A million dollar hit.”

“Yeah. One point three. Came in very handy, too. Jesus, you’d think the _hospitals_ were out to kill you from how much they charge to patch you up.” Brendon is still shrugging, still looking like nothing is wrong. From the way he’s leaning against the bar, there seems to be something off with his right leg as well.

“You okay?” Spencer hears himself ask. Which— _what?_

Brendon looks up, surprised. “Yeah,” he says, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Some damage to, um. And they had to—” He trails off, shakes his head. “I’m fine.”

Spencer has a flippant ‘too bad’ at the tip of his tongue. Somehow, it never makes it out, however, and he finds himself giving Brendon a tentative smile in return instead. “Drink?”

Brendon grins and pulls up a chair.

***

Five targets assigned in the last couple of months. Three where Brendon Urie beat him to it. Spencer needs to seriously step up his game; things are getting fucking ridiculous.

(He also needs to stop ending up with Brendon in various bars, cafés and, occasionally, restaurants every time they run into each other. And remind himself a little more often that he doesn’t actually _like_ the guy. Top level assassins don’t have friends, and they definitely don’t spend their evenings talking about what kind of dogs they’d like to have if things were different or playing pick-up sticks with french fries. It’s unnatural. Not to mention embarrassing as hell—and possibly deadly—if anyone were to find out about it.)

***

Seven days of carefully preparing how to take out an underground arms dealer who got a little too friendly with the FBI just to find the target dead. In a bed. With Brendon in the room. Again.

“How do you _do_ that?” Spencer says in frustration, feeling very much like this would be a good time to bang his head against the wall.

Brendon takes a clean shirt out of his bag, changes into it and carefully folds away his bloodstained one. “I'm naturally charming.”

“Oh, please,” Spencer says, not caring that his voice is rising. “The guy was on the run after having been involved with the Chicago mafia for decades! He knew better than to let his guard down just because some eye-candy walked in the room. Now, how the _fuck_ did you convince him to let you in?”

“Eye-candy, huh?” Brendon replies, smirking. “Oh, Spencer, why didn’t you just tell me you felt this way?” He even flutters his eyelashes. Spencer really, _really_ wants to punch him.

“Right,” Spencer drawls, hoping he looks at least half as condescending as he wants to.

“Well, I have been told I put the ‘ass’ in ‘assassin’,” Brendon quips, and Spencer can tell that he’s laughing at him. Fucking annoying, arrogant little bastard.

“Haven't you heard that it's dangerous to mix business with pleasure?” he says and immediately cringes inside. Jesus, be a little lamer, why doesn’t he. See if the situation could actually get any worse.

Brendon takes a moment to pretend to think this over. He even puts a hand on his chin, stroking pensively at an imaginary beard. “I don't know. I might have forgotten that one.”

“Really?” Spencer says, crossing his arms. He wishes there was something more he could add to his tone. Sarcasm—extended version, or something. Preferably combined with some instant superpower to make Urie shut the fuck up.

Brendon replies by shoving Spencer into the nearest wall, capturing both his wrists in a painful lock and bringing their mouths together, short and intense.

“Really,” he confirms when he pulls back, another infuriating smile on his lips, leaving Spencer feeling like all the air has just been punched out of his lungs. “Besides, the job's a lot more fun this way.”

Spencer is too shocked to even reach for his gun and ends up just watching stupidly as Brendon calmly collects his things and walks out of the room. Once the door slams shut, he slumps down, leaning against the wall and wondering what the fuck is happening to his life.

***

Spencer reports back to Gabriel Saporta about once a week. Less often if he can manage it; his boss has a tendency to wear combinations of patterns and colours that make Spencer’s brain hurt. Today, it’s zebra striped pants with a radioactive yellow shirt and a barbie pink hoodie. Spencer almost wishes he’d been recruited by William Beckett’s squad instead. The late 19th Century dandy style Beckett favours might be old-fashioned in the extreme, but at least it’s classy. Spencer kind of likes the coats.

“Got a new job for you, if you’re interested,” Saporta says, lounging on his green-and-purple leopard print futon.

Spencer lowers himself into his usual chair. “Always am. Who's the target?”

“One of Beckett's guys,” Saporta says, pulling a couple of photographs from an envelope and handing them to Spencer. “Brendon Urie. You know him?”

It’s a compliment to how much experience Spencer has in keeping himself alive that he manages not to flinch. He looks down at the familiar lines of Brendon’s face, pulling forth a look that’s just the right balance between interested and blasé as he flips through the pictures. “We’ve met. He’s done some impressive work.”

“A little too impressive,” Saporta says. “We’re losing market shares, and that can’t happen. Beckett might get ideas.”

“Kind of high risk to take out his number one guy.”

Saporta smiles. “Well, you know what they say. High stakes, high returns.”

Spencer forces himself to smile back. “How high?”

“More than enough,” Saporta says, pulling out another thick envelope and handing it to Spencer. “All the info is in there. Now go earn your keep, Smith. As mighty as the Cobra is, it’s not much use to anyone if it loses its fangs.”

It’s a warning, and Spencer knows it. He pulls himself together, nods politely and heads for the door.

“Oh, and Smith,” Saporta calls out just as Spencer’s about to reach for the handle. Spencer turns around. “I’ve been told he’s got a weakness for blue eyes.”

Saporta laughs after he says it, dirty and suggestive in a way that, had Spencer not taught himself how to control the impulse to blush years earlier, he definitely would have blushed now.

He nods again instead, manages a half-hearted leer back. “I’ll see what I can do. Get the money ready for transfer. I’ll be back for it in a week or two.”

***

It takes him less than two days to track Brendon down. Almost too easy, like Brendon’s waiting for him. Which, considering that the five star hotel room Spencer walks into is decorated like it’s expecting a couple on their wedding night, is not a bad guess. Spencer keeps a careful hold of his gun, inches around another corner.

“Champagne?”

Brendon is wearing boxers and an unbuttoned shirt. Nothing bullet proof. Nothing that would keep him alive in a fight. Even his feet are bare. Spencer can’t help but stare a little.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Brendon shrugs, smiles. “I knew you’d come looking for me sooner or later.”

He holds out a glass. Spencer doesn’t take it.

“So, how much am I worth these days?” Brendon says casually, pouring another glass for himself. “Eight hundred thousand? Seven-fifty?”

So much for the element of surprise.

“Six-seventy-five,” Spencer says, doing a quick scan of the room to make sure no one is lurking in the corners. “And possibly a new car.”

“Huh,” Brendon says, like Spencer just said something mildly interesting about the weather. “Well, I guess i did get shot. And then I lost that art fraud guy to you. That kind of sucked.”

Spencer cocks his gun, telling himself to just get it over with. Urie is one of Beckett’s guys, just another face and name that Spencer’s been contracted to take out. Bare feet or not, that’s all it can be.

Brendon just smiles. “Aren’t you curious about yourself?”

Spencer feels something cold grab hold of his spine. Definitely too easy. He should have known for sure the second he walked through the door what finding Brendon this fast—finding him like _this_ —had to mean. He scans the room again, noting the lack of chairs, lamps, cords—all things Spencer might find useful in a one-on-one fight.

Brendon’s chosen his ground well.

“How much?”

“Half a mill,” Brendon says, still looking completely unconcerned with the fact that Spencer has a loaded gun pointed at him. “Guess you haven’t been doing that great lately.”

“So why all the dress-up?” Spencer asks, feeling his fingers begin to cramp from how tight his grip is. “You knew I was coming. Could have taken me out without all this seduction bullshit.”

Brendon looks at him, holding up a glass in either hand. “Like I said, my way is more fun. I’ve got the room until Sunday. Have a drink. We’ve got plenty of time.”

He holds out the glass again. After a moment’s hesitation, Spencer takes it, too curious not to and fairly sure that Brendon isn’t planning to attack him right away. He lets the hand holding his gun drop to his side, even though a more rational part of his brain is yelling that he’s a fucking idiot who is going to get himself killed. Brendon bites his lip and takes the other glass for himself, clinks the flutes together.

“To business,” he says, raising the glass to his mouth.

Spencer stops him. “Not really that stupid.”

Brendon raises an eyebrow at him, and Spencer reaches out, pulls him closer and hooks their arms around one another so that they’re drinking from each other’s glass. A lover’s sip. Spencer can appreciate the irony.

Brendon gives him a teasing look and tilts his head back, drinking down the champagne in one go. Spencer follows his example, feels the cool liquid run down his throat and the bubbles go straight to his head.

He smiles at Brendon, who uses the hold to pull them a little closer, then keeps his eyes open as Brendon starts leaning in. Spencer wets his lips, tilts his head a little, curious to see just exactly what tricks Brendon Urie is going to try and pull on him. Brendon tilts his head too, brushes his mouth sweetly across Spencer’s jaw, parting his lips—

And then everything goes black.

***

He wakes up naked in bed, arms and legs tied to the bedposts with nylon rope, able to move but unable to do anything that could actually get him out of the knots. His head is throbbing, and there’s a faint metallic taste at the back of his tongue.

God, he is so fucking stupid.

He wonders briefly if the drug was on the glass or if Brendon put it straight in the bottle, choosing something he could take a pill for beforehand to counter the effects.

“You know, I thought about this a lot,” Brendon says from somewhere to his left. “Like, how to actually do it.”

“And?”

Brendon moves onto the bed, slipping between the sheets and positioning himself half-way on top of Spencer, looking down into his face. He’s not wearing his shirt and boxers anymore, and Spencer does his best not to think about what that means as Brendon leans in to kiss him, coaxing Spencer’s mouth open with soft, insistent lips.

Spencer kisses back, telling himself he’s doing it because playing along might give him an opening later. And that if it doesn’t—if this really does turn out to be his final fight—he might as well; not like he’s going to hell for having sex with someone when his job is killing people.

Also, Brendon is kind of an amazing kisser.

“I decided I wanted to draw it out,” Brendon says, pulling back. “A quick execution is so impersonal. I think I—no. Actually, I think we _both_ deserve to make the most of this.” He leans in again, kisses Spencer slowly, lingering, giving them both enough time to really enjoy it.

“Unless, you know?” he continues, tracing the lines of Spencer’s face with the tip of his nose. “I mean, I could kill you right now.” He follows up with another kiss, then moves his lips to Spencer’s throat, lets his tongue come out to play and draw lazy circles across Spencer’s skin. “If that sounds better to you.”

“You won't,” Spencer says, swallowing thickly to keep his voice in check. “Not yet.”

“How can you be so sure?” Brendon asks, moving a hand down Spencer’s front now, slowing down when he’s got a finger trailing over Spencer’s hipbone.

Spencer tilts his chin up, strains his neck, finds Brendon’s lips again for a slow, deep kiss. “Because if you kill me, I won't be able to fuck you.”

***

“Okay, so maybe I don't really want you dead,” Brendon says. Tries to say. He’s a bit too out of breath and sex-drugged to enunciate properly.

“Imagine that,” Spencer drawls, trying to stretch out the sore muscles in his legs as much as he can. The rope is really starting to chafe. It feels absolutely amazing.

“It's all your fault, you know,” Brendon says with a pout. “You always have to make things so difficult. Stealing my targets and getting in the way and being all pretty. Couldn't you at least have been a completely lousy lay and made killing you a little easier?”

“Sorry,” Spencer says, completely without conviction. His brain is pleasantly numb, too flooded with endorphins to really care about anything. “Come closer and I’ll make it up to you.”

“You’d better not have any more slick moves,” Brendon says, narrowing his eyes, even as he pushes himself to his knees and reaches for the headboard.

Spencer smiles and parts his lips.

***

“This is so not fair,” Brendon manages, slumping down next to Spencer and putting both arms over his face. “Not fair,” he repeats quietly under his breath, and Spencer gets a sudden feeling that it’s about more than just blow job skills. He watches Brendon take a series of deep breaths and feels a pang in his own chest.

Nothing about this is fair.

***

“Untie me.”

Brendon kisses his way up Spencer’s arms, licking carefully where the ropes are cutting into his skin. “Why?”

Spencer waits until Brendon’s mouth is back on his and he can tilt his hips up a little, making Brendon groan.

“Because you know you want to.”

Brendon kisses him again and reaches for the knots.

***

The next morning, Spencer wakes up alone. And more importantly, still alive. He looks around the room, blinking a few times in confusion.

Brendon is gone.

Spencer sits up in bed, grimacing slightly when he puts weight on his bruised wrists. There’s a room service cart next to the bed, laden with anything anyone could ever want for breakfast. There’s a note too, stuck to something as unoriginal as a single red rose in a vase next to the coffee pot. Spencer takes it and leans back against the headboard.

  
_Guess this puts you one ahead. I’ll see you soon. Don’t be a stranger._   


  
_/Brendon  
xoxo_   


  
_ps. Enjoy the food. I didn’t poison it. Scout’s honour._   


  


A laugh breaks unexpectedly from Spencer’s throat. He reads the note again, something strange and warm settling in his chest. The food is still hot, and Spencer grabs a fork and a plate of scrambled eggs, poking at them a little. They smell really good, and Spencer figures that taking Brendon’s word for them not having been tampered with wouldn’t even rate in the top ten of suicidally stupid things he’s done in the last twenty-four hours.

He takes a bite, closing his eyes in pleasure. Food always tastes better after a showdown, and this time there isn’t even a weight on his conscience to add a slight bitterness to the back of his tongue. He pours some coffee as well, drinks it slowly and allows himself a moment to just enjoy his breakfast and not think about what is going to happen next.

It’s the best morning Spencer’s had in a very long time.

***

They don’t kill each other the second time either. Or the third. It’s like trying to step away from addiction: every time Spencer gets an opportunity to actually do it, where he could reach for his gun, or knock Brendon unconscious or get something around his neck, he falters, succumbing to thoughts of ‘just one more’ and ending up kissing and touching instead. He knows that the longer he waits, the harder it will be, and the greater the risk becomes that Brendon will get over himself before he does.

Spencer honestly doesn’t know which outcome he’s more afraid of anymore.

“There’s the other option, you know,” Brendon says quietly sometime during their fourth encounter. They’re in a penthouse in L.A., sprawled out on a thick rug on the floor. Brendon has his head on Spencer’s shoulder and is nuzzling into his neck in a way that feels a million times better than it could ever be allowed to.

“Yeah, that would work,” Spencer says. “For about five minutes until they find us and decide to make an example of what happens when you try to leave the fold.”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

Spencer shakes his head. He hasn’t. Not in any real sense, at least. Professional assassin isn’t a job with a two weeks’ notice. You work until someone kills you and get paid obscene sums of money while you’re still alive. There isn’t an after. Especially not if he and Brendon tried to run together. Saporta and Beckett might be rivals and plotting to get each other killed most of the time, but Spencer wouldn’t put it past them to join forces temporarily for something like this.

“We’d get caught,” he says, as gently as he can, because they can’t allow themselves to pretend that there is another choice when there really, really isn’t.

“You don’t know that,” Brendon says, clinging more tightly to Spencer’s body. “Like, I know a guy. From way, way back. He knows how to hide people, really make them disappear.”

“Sounds like a six-feet-under kind of deal to me,” Spencer replies, pushing himself off the floor and starting to look for his clothes. “Brendon, it’s not—you _know_ it’s not possible. I wish there was a way—believe me, I do—but the reality is that there’s only one way to go from here. And it’s kind of one person only.”

Brendon looks up at him for a long time, face closing up to something completely expressionless. He stands up as well, starts getting dressed. When they’re both done, they stand there, watching each other to see who’ll have the guts to say what they both know is coming.

“When and where?” Brendon says coldly, and Spencer feels something crack inside of him.

“Day after tomorrow. There’s an abandoned warehouse off the interstate three miles south of the exit to Malibu. The feds cleaned it out a few weeks back.”

“Yeah, I know it,” Brendon says. “9 AM? No games, free choice of weapons?”

“Sounds good,” Spencer says. “I’ll see you then.”

He turns quickly and leaves the apartment, not able to meet Brendon’s eyes any longer. Things are what they are, and they are out of time. Saporta’s already given Spencer two warnings for taking so long to fulfill his contract, and Spencer can’t imagine that Beckett is a more patient boss.

One of them will have to die, or they both will.

For the first time in years, Spencer truly regrets what’s become of his life.

***

Spencer doesn’t spend the next day doing any of the stupid things people usually say they’d do if they knew that a specific day might be their last. He’s been a hit man for almost ten years and learned early on that the key to survival was to never ever doubt that he would be the one still standing after a fight went down. Doing something cliché like bungy-jumping won’t help him with that.

So he checks his guns, polishes a few knives, goes through his field gear to make sure there aren’t any damages. Plays a game of solitaire on his computer. And checks that all his money is in the right accounts, just in case.

He pauses when the balance for one of his untraceable Swiss accounts opens up on the screen. There’s been a transfer of fifty thousand dollars from it just a few hours earlier. A pre-set, annual transfer. Spencer swallows and double-checks the date.

December 24.

He’s scheduled to kill Brendon on fucking Christmas.

Spencer throws the lid down on his computer and leaves his apartment, walking quickly down the streets without any real goal in mind. Sometime after his feet start to hurt, he finally slows down, puts his hands over his face and takes a couple of deep breaths.

He can’t fucking do this.

He still has to.

There’s a payphone on the corner. Spencer reaches into his pocket and finds that he actually has a handful of coins. He calls the number from memory, wondering if it’s been two or three years since the last time.

Ryan answers on the third ring, and Spencer closes his eyes, lets himself sag against the wall.

“Ry, it’s me.”

“Spencer?” Ryan says, surprised. “Jesus, is that really you? I haven’t talked to you in forever.”

Spencer smiles into the phone. “How are you?”

“I’m good,” Ryan says. “What about you? Hey, is everything okay? Are you—” _hurt,_ Spencer fills in for him, cringing. Sometimes, he wishes he’d never told Ryan why he was going away. (Granted, he said he’d joined the CIA, not an infamous assassin squad, but assignments to take people out are pretty much identical in both organisations, so he doesn’t think it matters all that much.)

“I’m fine,” he says. “Listen, Ry, do you still have the letter I gave you?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Good.”

“Is something wrong?”

Spencer takes another deep breath. “I think I’m in love.”

“Are you kidding me?” Ryan says, sounding somewhere between shocked and delighted. “Wow, way to scare me, asshole. Spence, that’s awesome.”

“It’s over,” Spencer says quietly. “It—we’re working together. Sort of. It’s just too dangerous.”

Ryan’s silent for a while. “Are you sure about that?” he finally says. “I mean, Spence, you’re really smart. Maybe there’s another way if you can’t—”

“No, it’s fine,” Spencer says, not sure his head can take Ryan trying to put ideas into it as well. “It’s—I know what I need to do. How’s the family?”

Ryan makes a few protesting noises, like he doesn’t want to let Spencer off the hook. Spencer waits, and in the end, Ryan sighs and starts telling him about Hannah, who’s six now, and James, who is going to be a great artist and is already creating his first masterpieces with blue finger paint on the family couch. Tells him about how Z is pregnant again and more beautiful than ever. It’s a girl, due this spring. Ryan wants to call her Morgan.

“I’m really happy for you,” Spencer says, holding the phone tightly against his ear. “I wish I could be there.”

“Me too,” Ryan says. “I know we don’t talk a lot, but I miss you.”

“Maybe someday,” Spencer says. “Like, maybe I could come by for a visit. Stay a couple of days.”

He won’t, and he and Ryan both know it. Ryan’s the only family he has. No way he’d ever risk putting him, Z and the kids on someone’s radar by getting too close.

“I’d like that,” Ryan says anyway, and Spencer smiles. “Thanks for the money, by the way. It’s really helping out a lot.”

“That’s great,” Spencer says, trying not to think about the fact that if it’s he who goes down tomorrow, Ryan’ll get a hell of a lot more. “Listen, Ryan, I have to go. Give the family a hug from me. And Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Spence,” Ryan replies softly. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Spencer swallows hard and tries not to think about his kitchen table, lined with weapons waiting to be packed. “I’ll do my best. Love you.”

“Love you too, Spence,” Ryan says. “Bye.”

“Bye.”

He waits until he hears the click of Ryan hanging up the phone at the other end of the line and then gets out of the phone booth, heading for home.

***

The first shot hits the wall, too loud in the empty space. A milli-second later the moment explodes into a flurry of bullets and sparks, of dodging and rolling and having no thought but where to aim next and how to get away alive.

Instinct and action in a battle to the death. For the first time since he really met Brendon, Spencer can feel himself blank out and let things just be what they are. The gun is solid in his hand, simple like nothing else in the world, a quiet focus narrowing his vision down to a single point.

He fires again and again, keeps going until he’s emptied everything. They move on to bodies and knives after that, furiously kicking and slashing at each other, trying to find an opening.

They’re evenly matched. Different in style and too close in skill, leading to many landed blows but few that turn out really serious. Until Brendon loses his centre for a split second in a round-house kick, and Spencer’s there, kicking his leg out from under him and making him fall, trapping Brendon beneath him when they hit the ground and pressing his knife firmly against the pale skin of his throat.

Brendon struggles for a moment and then quiets down. He looks up at Spencer with glassy eyes and a small smile on his face, like he wants to congratulate him on winning the fight. Or like he’s trying to tell Spencer that everything will still be alright in the end.

The knife clatters against the concrete where it falls, and Spencer kicks it further out of the way as he pulls Brendon into his lap, wrapping his arms around him in a crushing hug. It hurts like fuck. Spencer is pretty sure he’s got at least a couple of broken ribs, and there’s a long tear in his clothes along his left side, where the fabric is steadily soaking up more and more blood. Spencer doesn’t care, just keeps holding on. Doesn’t even think about the fact that he’s just lost the fight of his life and will likely feel Brendon’s knife pierce the skin on his back at any moment.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, over and over, lips pressed against Brendon’s neck just to be able to feel that his pulse is still there. Brendon hugs him back with one arm, just as tightly. His other shoulder is at a weird angle, and Spencer grabs it and pulls without even thinking, making Brendon cry out in pain as it clicks back into place.

Brendon reaches for him then, pressing his mouth to the corner of Spencer’s, cleaning away the blood from where Spencer’s lip split and kissing him softly. Spencer gasps; the sting of having Brendon’s tongue against the wound travels straight through him, spreading heat all the way down to his toes. He moves his hands to Brendon’s face, kisses him back. It’s painfully glorious, despite the lightness of touch. They’re both holding back, careful of each other’s injuries, and Spencer’s still never felt a kiss that claimed him so completely.

After what feels like not even close to long enough, Brendon untangles himself from Spencer’s lap and gets unsteadily to his feet, walking over to his bag. Spencer stiffens, but can’t bear to make himself move. He closes his eyes instead, waits.

“Lie down on your back,” Brendon says, a slight tremble in his voice.

Spencer does, hopes Brendon will at least show him the courtesy of getting the job done with one shot.

A soft click. Spencer holds his breath.

The pain never comes, and when Spencer opens his eyes again, he sees Brendon standing a few feet away, fiddling with something on his phone.

“There,” he says, pressing a final button and putting the phone in his pocket while Spencer crawls into a sitting position. “That should buy us at least twenty-four hours to get ourselves patched up and across the border to Mexico. I’ll get in contact with the guy I know as soon as we’re on our way. We should—”

He trails off at the sight of Spencer’s face. Spencer can’t really blame him, seeing as he’s staring down at the floor and can feel something wet and hot burn at the corners of his eyes.

“Wait,” Brendon says, falling to his knees in front of him, tilting his face up. “Wait, you thought—”

Spencer’s known how to take a punch since forever, but the one Brendon throws now comes out of nowhere, connecting painfully with Spencer’s jaw and making him fall down heavily on his side.

“Ow.”

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Brendon shouts, dragging Spencer back up and pulling him into another crushing hug. “Fuck you for even thinking that I—I don’t want—you’re so— _Fuck you_.”

He tangles his hands in Spencer’s hair, pushing him away just enough to kiss the life out of him. Spencer pushes back, kissing and touching until he’s shaking from the overload of emotion and adrenaline.

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” Brendon says, kissing him again, more lingering this time. He breaks away, gets to his feet. “You ready to run for your life?”

Spencer nods. Not killing Brendon means no going back, especially since it’ll probably take Beckett all of two minutes to call Saporta and gloat about having the better hit man. He’ll do what he must.

“Good,” Brendon says, offering him a smile and a hand to pull him to his feet. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

***

Brendon’s friend calls himself Peter Pan and turns out to have close to magical powers when it comes to helping people hide from people you can’t normally hide from. He meets up with them in a small fishing town north of Tampico, equipped with new sets of fake IDs, an envelope of cash and a sailboat he uses to get them away from land and to a tiny island somewhere in the Caribbean where he and a short, red-headed guy named Patrick (or Wendy, as Pete insists on calling him) live together in a small, white house.

“Wendy’s been here for eight years,” Pete tells them after giving them the tour. “Helped him out after some Italians got mad at him for not eating his spaghetti with the right fork or something.”

“Yeah, that and they didn’t like fifty kilos of pure snow getting lost on the way from Colombia to New York,” Patrick says, rolling his eyes. “How much did the two of you get away with?”

“Three to four million, give or take,” Brendon says. “What about you, Spencer?”

“Almost eleven,” Spencer says, unable to stop himself from grinning at the shocked look on Brendon’s face. “What? Not everyone wines and dines their targets the way you seem to do.”

“So that’s something like fifteen million,” Patrick says. “Good. Then you have more than enough to get by. Take the boat out, find an island. Build a house. It’s not that bad, really.” He looks at Pete when he says it, a small smile playing on his lips.

Spencer watches the way Pete’s eyes light up and feels a sudden, suffocating weight settle on his chest. He has to get out. It’s too much—a whole new life ahead of him that he never planned to have and doesn’t have the first idea what to do with. He takes a worn path down to the beach and sits down in the sand, hugging his knees and staring out at the endless ocean.

Where the fuck is he supposed to go from here?

Brendon finds him a while later, walking up to him and then hesitating, stopping a couple of yards away.

“We’re _here,_ you know,” he says. “Hey, don’t worry, we made it. We’re alive.”

Spencer shrugs, keeps his eyes on the water. “For now.”

“For a long time,” Brendon insists. “Pete says that as long as we keep moving between islands, we’ll be fine. There are thousands of places around here. So unless Saporta really does have a mystic connection with the Mighty Cobra, they’ll never find us.”

Spencer doesn’t answer.

“You know, a lot of people would consider bumming around the Caribbean on a sailboat with a few million dollars in the bank a pretty sweet way to live,” Brendon says, taking a step closer.

“We’re not most people.”

“No,” Brendon admits, sitting down next to Spencer and handing him full bottle of what Spencer suspects is some kind of rum mix. “But there’s a pretty gorgeous sunset right over there, a bottle of Pete’s Party Special right here, and in about thirty seconds, I’m going to pull off your pants and wrap my mouth around your dick while you start enjoying both of them. So I say we’re okay. I promise we will be.”

Spencer puts the bottle down in the sand and reaches for Brendon’s face, kissing him hard and a little desperately until Brendon is smiling into his mouth and kissing him back in a way that makes Spencer dizzy.

“I love you,” Spencer murmurs against his lips when they break apart for air. “So fucking much.”

“Good,” Brendon replies, kissing him again, pressing the words back. He starts moving his hands into the openings of Spencer’s clothes, caressing the bare skin underneath as he takes them off. “Now take a drink and watch the sunset.”

THE END  



End file.
